


World Made Up of Silver and Copper

by Arokel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Always ask for consent before you hug people, Asexual Character, Bahorel is a good bro, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Trans Male Character, citrus is actually a calming scent I looked it up, mentions of antiblack racism and transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:56:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arokel/pseuds/Arokel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Joly get married because of respectability politics. And also citrus, but mostly respectability politics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Made Up of Silver and Copper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodscout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/gifts).



> Happy holidays, bloodscout! I ended up kind of glossing over the whole race/gender thing because I'm white and because I'm not on T, but I hope it came across.
> 
> [vague handwavey social justice terminology] I swear I've actually studied this stuff and I'm not just throwing buzzwords around, really.

“I’m very ill, Combeferre.”

Joly drops his coat and bag on the floor where he stands, crosses the few feet to Combeferre’s couch, and practically falls onto it. He blinks several times, watching upside-down as Combeferre stands and stretches the kinks out of his back.

“Don’t do that; you’ll get a head rush. What’s the diagnosis?”

Joly squirms around until he’s in some semblance of right side-up. For all that he complains of joint pains, Joly is incredibly limber for their age-- not that twenty-seven is old, but the point still stands. “A serious case of the fuck yous. Why didn’t I listen to my dad when he told me not to go to med school?”

Oh, this. Normally Combeferre would play along with Joly’s dramatics, but today he just can’t deal with it. He likes having Joly stay at his place, but there’s a certain limit to the amount of dramatic sighing and flopping over furniture that he can take.

“You ask me that question every time you come over and you haven’t found the answer yet, so maybe you should stop asking,” he says, and immediately regrets it when Joly’s face falls. Too harsh. He scrubs his hands over his face, which doesn’t make him any less tired, but it grounds him a little. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day for me too.”

Joly frowns in sympathy, and this is why Combeferre doesn’t deserve his friendship. Even though Joly’s had an awful day, he’s still ready to listen to Combeferre complain about his. “What’s up? Was it your landlord again, because I swear if he makes another comment about you ‘bringing down the property value’ I’ll--”

“It wasn’t that. I think he was joking about that, anyway.”

“Nobody jokes about that. And anyway, even if they did there’s a lot of racial prejudice tied up in those kinds of jokes so he’s still a racist dickbag.”

Combeferre rubs his face again, with no better luck than the first time. “I won’t fight you on that one. No, it was Mr. Stevens, a few doors down? I ran into him in the elevator and he insinuated that a ‘woman like me’--”

“That doesn’t sound like insinuation.”

“It wasn’t quite that specific. But he insinuated that it was dangerous for me to live alone in a place like this.”

“I’ll kill him,” Joly says, very calm. It’s probably the reasonable response to hearing that sentence, but Combeferre bristles at it anyway. He doesn’t need a protector.

“It wasn’t a threat. He seemed genuinely concerned for my welfare.”

“How many is that this month?”

Combeferre sets his jaw stubbornly. He’s fought this battle before with each of his friends, and so far he’s won every time. “Five. But they’re all good people. They don’t mean to be transphobic; they just don’t know any better.”

Joly throws his hands up in defeat and lets his head fall back against the arm of the couch. “I don’t know how you do it. Anyone else they were targeting, and it’d be ‘ignorance isn’t an excuse’ and ‘microagressions are a real problem’. But these people… you give them so much leeway, and even when they’re intentionally awful you give them the benefit of the doubt. You’re the most forgiving person I’ve ever met.”

Combeferre hopes the face he makes conveys the incredulity he feels. In a way it’s true, but… “have you _seen_ me at meetings?”

Joly flaps a dismissive hand at him. “Yeah, but that’s about systemic stuff. When it’s just hurting you, you let people walk all over you. Gotta work on that.” He stands and stretches, padding towards Combeferre’s kitchen.

“I don’t--”

“Shh,” Joly says, pausing in his journey to put a finger to Combeferre’s lips. “I’m tired and you’re wrong, so this is a pointless argument.”

Combeferre stands blinking in his own living room while Joly rifles through his kitchen cabinets. “You don’t even live here!”

“Yes,” Joly calls back, reappearing with a sesame seed bagel, “and because you are such a kind-hearted and giving person, you are letting me crash here several nights a week for the indeterminate future, so I might as well be.”

“You could at least pay rent, then.”

“Nah, I don’t live here.” Joly winks at him and takes a bite of the bagel. At least it’s one of the sesame ones. Joly’s never said outright, but Combeferre knows he takes the sesame seed ones because Combeferre doesn’t really like them. Combeferre hasn’t quite admitted to himself that he only keeps buying them so they’re there when Joly comes over.  The most expedient thing to do would be to just ask Joly what kind of bagel he prefers, but so far that hasn’t happened.

Joly takes another bite without taking his eyes off of Combeferre. “Well?”

“Did you put anything on that bagel?”

“Nope. Too tired.”

“You’re just eating plain bread?”

“With sesame seeds.

“That’s even worse.”

Joly pulls the comforter off the armchair where it lives during the day and drapes it over the couch, still holding the bagel in one hand. “Well, I’m going to fall asleep in about six minutes, so you can take your judgmental ass out of my sleeping space and let me enjoy my sesame seed bread in peace.”

“It’s my living room,” Combeferre says, but there’s no heat behind it.

* * *

Joly comes back to Combeferre’s apartment on Tuesday looking just as tired, but less like he wants to murder the next person who argues with him about vaccines. He drops his bag on the floor again, but he does stop to actually hang up on his coat before he collapses onto the couch.

“You’re looking almost neutral,” Combeferre says. “Over your illness?”

“Very funny. I actually had a good day. A little girl threw up on me.”

“I never count a day as successful unless a child vomits on me.”

Joly snorts and shakes his head. “Okay, mister smartass. She threw up because she was choking on a magnet and we got it out.”

“A magnet?”

“You know, one of those alphabet fridge magnets. I don’t know how she even swallowed it, actually; those things are not small. But we got it out and she’s doing fine, so I feel pretty great.”

“I can’t say I understand, but I’m glad it was a good day,” Combeferre says. He’s trying to seem invested in the conversation, but something must show on his face because Joly laughs again and punches him on the shoulder.

“I can tell you don’t really care. You’ve got something you’re more excited about, so let’s hear it.”

“I always care about your day.”

“Always, yeah, but not tonight. Come on, what’ve you got?”

Combeferre grins. “I ran into Mr. Stevens again.”

“Did he make any thinly-veiled threats about your safety?”

Joly sounds bored, but Combeferre knows that if he answered yes, Joly would be out the door in an instant and ready to call every lawyer they know, which is a lot of lawyers. It’s comforting to know his friends have his back, but at this very moment he’s trying to tell an exciting story, not sic Bahorel on some unsuspecting seventy-year-old man who’s just trying to keep up with the times. Anyway.

“They weren’t threats. And no, he actually mentioned you.”

Joly looks taken aback, like Combeferre has actually shocked him. Maybe that says something about the repetitive nature of Combeferre’s complaints about his neighbors, but Joly’s the one infringing on Combeferre’s hospitality so Joly will just have to deal with it. “Me?”

“He said he’d noticed you coming over a lot and he was really happy I’d found someone. There was still a weird hint of ‘you need a good man in your life’, but it was a nice sentiment.”

Joly’s face splits into an amazed grin. “Wait, really? You and me? Oh my god, that’s awesome. Let’s troll the fuck out of him, oh my god, can we?”

“That’s not really the point of this story.”

“Sorry yeah, go on. That’s fantastic though.”

“How gracious of you. He had a friend with him too, someone who doesn’t live here as far as I know, and she said it was still so strange how ‘the gays’ can get married now.”

“And that made you happy.”

Joly’s skepticism is probably warranted, given Combeferre’s frequent and vocal reminders that any sentence including the word ‘gays’ is “the worst sentence he has ever heard”. But in this case, he’s willing to let it slide for The Greater Good.

“She said _the gays_. She just assumed I was a man.”

Realization dawns. Joly actually bounces up and down a little in his seat. It’s one of the more adorable things Comebeferre has ever seen him do. “Oh hey, yeah, that’s great! See, I keep telling you you pass really well; these people have just known you since before you started transitioning.” He pauses. “Not that passing is the necessary goal for all trans people, obviously, but I know it matters to you so--”

Combeferre laughs, giddy. His friends are the best, even when they’re trying too hard. “I get it.”

“Yeah, okay, I just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t enforcing cisnormative standards on you or anything like that,” Joly mumbles.

“Don’t worry, you’re a good ally,” Combeferre says, ruffling Joly’s hair as he moves to sit down. Joly swats his hand away, but he doesn’t complain when the couch sags in the middle and they end up pressed together. “Maybe I should move, then.”

“If it gets you away from Doug The I’ve-Just-Had-Bad-Experiences-Renting-To-Black-People Landlord, I’m all for it. Don’t even try to deny it, I was there when he said it and that’s exactly how it happened. There’s no way to spin that one.”

Combeferre deflates. “Fine, that one was pretty bad. There’s not really any point in talking about it anyway; I doubt I could find a better place than this one.”

* * *

“That old lady from down the hall, what’s her name, Laura? I think it’s Laura, she congratulated me on our relationship when I was coming in,” Joly says as he opens the door. He sees Combeferre, slumped on the couch looking despondent, and stops in his tracks. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I’m being evicted.”

“You’re what?”

“Doug gave some bullshit excuse about rising property values and rent hikes, but we both knew it was because some of the tenants don’t like living with a black guy,” Combeferre says. His voice comes out surprisingly flat considering his current emotional state, but he supposes shock will do that to you.

“What the fuck, dude,” Joly says, sitting to face him. “Can I hug you?”

Combeferre nods, and Joly pulls him into a fierce hug. “Cool. Seriously though, what the hell? Can he do that?” he asks.

“Techincally, yeah. I had Bossuet look at the lease and technically the rent hike is legal since it’s not explicitly discriminatory, so there’s nothing I can do.”

Joly moves out of the hug but stays close, shoulders touching. Combeferre leans into it, just a little, lets himself bask in the comfort of someone who actually gives a shit. He’s sure his other friends would be sympathetic, but he doesn’t want to bother them. He’s the one everyone goes to with their problems; he’s got his shit together. He doesn’t have problems.

Joly must get that he doesn’t want sympathy, because all he says is, “shit, man, that sucks. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Combeferre sighs. He moves to stand up, but Joly pulls him back down to the couch.

“Nuh-uh. Whatever it is you need to do, you tell me and I’ll do it.”

“But you just got back,” Combeferre says. It’s a token protest; he’s so tired and drained and angry, and he knows he should eat something but the thought of making food choices is overwhelming. “You’ve been at the hospital for fourteen hours.”

“And you’re getting kicked out of your apartment, so you’re having the objectively shittier day,” Joly argues. “Just let me help you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was just going to grab like an orange or something.”

“An orange?”

“Citrus calms me down.”

Joly gives him a searching look as he stands. “I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that?”

“Why would you know it?”

“Because I’m your friend. I make a point to know things like that about my friends for exactly these situations,” Joly says, heading for the kitchen. Combeferre trails after him. “I thought I told you to stay where you were.”

“Too late, I’m up now,” Combeferre says. He leans against the fridge and watches as Joly, now without a real purpose, hops up onto the counter across from him. “How often do your friends get forced out of their apartments?”

“Well, only once so far, but I mean similarly distressing situations.”

Combeferre grins at him, already feeling a little better simply because he isn’t alone to obsess over it anymore. “I like that ‘so far’. It’s so optimistic.”

Joly pouts. “Hey, I’m a super optimist. I’m the most optimistic of our friends except for Enjolras, and I wouldn’t classify that as something as tame as optimism. Maybe _zeal_ , or something like that.”

* * *

Apartment hunting is the worst. Combeferre forgot how much he hates it, but he is reminded now every time a landlord looks at him sideways and tells him there aren’t any apartments open, or every time the rent is too high or the apartment itself is terrible. He has to lower his standards, since everyone in the nicer places seems twitchy around him.

This is ridiculous. This isn’t some rural town where no one has ever seen a trans person; he shouldn’t be having this much trouble finding a place to stay.

He’s reluctant to ask for help from his friends, but the situation is not looking promising.

“Hey man, we heard about the apartment thing,” Bahorel says the next time they see each other. He gestures for Combeferre to come closer, movements a little looser than normal because he’s drunk. “That’s rough. Don’t let those bigots get you down though, you’re a great person. C’mere, can I give you a hug?”

“Yeah, sure,” Combeferre says. A lot of people have been hugging him lately, which is weird, but nice. He gets the suspicion that all his friends backed off of physical affection when he first started to transition in some misguided attempt to respect his boundaries, but evidently they’ve passed that mandatory waiting period and it’s hugging time again. He’s missed it.

Bahorel’s hugs are a different experience every time, and this is one of those bone-crushing _it’ll-be-okay-bro_ hugs that Combeferre both loves and dreads, if only for the sake of his ribcage. “If you ever need me to come in and yell at them about anti-discrimination laws, let me know,” Bahorel says, and Combeferre knows he’s serious even if he’s completely shitfaced.

“Thanks.”

“Hey. Hey. I have an idea,” Bossuet says, squinting like he’s thinking hard about what he’s going to say next. “What you need to do is get a boyfriend. Two gay guys in a loving, committed relationship is way more respectable than one dude with kind of confusing gender markers.”

“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Joly says.

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” Grantaire says, sliding into the booth next to him. Joly squawks but slides over to make room. “But seriously though, he’s got a point. Respectability politics and all that.”

“You can’t just say ‘because respectability politics’ and just leave it there,” Combeferre says.

“Sure I can. All the youths on the web are doing it.”

“Please don’t ever say that again,” Joly says.

Grantaire laughs, and it’s a nice sound. His laugh is less bitter these days. “Joly, baby, my darling Jollly, if you want to keep up with the times, you gotta keep up with the youths. Keep your ear to the ground.”

“At least stop saying ‘youths’,” Joly grumbles.

“Grantaire, you’re on the internet more than lots of teenagers I know,” Bossuet says, leaning heavily against Bahorel. He’s a complete lightweight, but, as always, he accepted some stupid drinking challenge and now he’s hammered. Sometimes Combeferre wonders when his friends are going to turn into real adults. Surely they’ve passed that milestone at this point? They can rent cars; that should be the deadline.

“That’s how I know the lingo. _But_ , Combeferre, syntactical innovation aside, you can’t argue that it’s not a thing.”

“I’m not arguing that it’s not a thing,” Combeferre sighs. “I’m just saying it’s a ridiculous idea.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s got some merit,” Grantaire says. “Not a lot, but at least some. A non-zero amount.”

Bahorel claps him on the shoulder. “Again, if you ever need anything, I’m here. I’d make a great fake boyfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend,” Combeferre points out.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure she _would_.”

“The point _is_ ,” Bahorel continues, “we need to find you a nice, respectable--” Enjolras wanders over to their booth. “--pair of trousers. Joly, did you ever go to that tailor I told you about?” Bahorel finishes. Enjolras is not a fan of respectability politics.

“I did, and I bought a very nice suit. I wore it to my sister’s wedding,” Joly says.

Bossuet looks up, apparently scandalized. “Not the leather pants?”

“Definitely not the leather pants.”

“But they would have looked so--”

Enjolras clears his throat. “Bossuet, could I borrow you for a minute? I have a question about some zoning laws for our next protest.”

“What on earth do zoning laws have to do with our protest?” Bossuet asks, but he staggers to his feet anyway. “See y’all later.”

There is a chorus of ‘see you’s from the booth, and then Joly turns back to Bahorel. “Nice save.”

“Well, you know, anything to avoid another lecture on the nature of ‘passing’ rhetoric,” Bahorel says. He swings around to point a mostly-steady finger at Combeferre. “But _you_ need to get a boyfriend.”

“It’s not quite that easy.”

“Sure it is. You just get a pair of leather pants like Joly was _supposed_ to get,” and here Joly makes an exasperated noise, “and you head out to a bar and show off what you’ve got.”

The first excuse that comes to Combeferre’s mind is that his packer would look weird in tight leather pants, which he doesn’t know for a fact, but neither do his friends so it would probably work. On the other hand, he’s not super down to talk about his junk with his drunk friends, so he settles on “bars aren’t really my style.”

“R can go with you, he’s a great bar buddy.”

“I’m not drinking,” Grantaire reminds him.

“Oh shit yeah, sorry man, I forgot.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s still new, it’s a change,” he says, but they can all see it bothers him.

“No, it’s not. It’s a big deal for you and I want to be supportive.”

“Well, thanks.” There is an uncomfortable silence, and then Grantaire, thankfully, changes the subject. “So: boyfriend.”

“Oh, please no,” Combeferre groans.

“Too late. Okay, first step to wooing a man--”

Combeferre leans back into the cushions of the booth and prepares himself for what is going to be a long conversation. This is not going to solve his problem at all, but it’s a nice distraction and he needs that. The stress is starting to wear on him.

Joly is whistling when he enters Combeferre’s apartment the next day, but he stops short when he sees Combeferre, slumped over on the couch with his head in his hands.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” Combeferre says, muffled. He raises his head, face still puffy from crying. Frustrated tears prick at his eyes again and he swipes at them angrily. _Get it together._ “I’ve got ten days until I have to move out and no one will rent to me. I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Joly says, unconvincingly, but Combeferre loves him for trying. “We’ll find you something.”

“I shouldn’t be--” Combeferre starts. He shakes his head, laughing a little at himself. “I’m the adult of this friend group, I shouldn’t be falling apart like this.”

Joly pulls him into a hug without asking, which means he’s really worried. Joly never forgets to ask for consent. “No. Come on, adults have crises all the time. Just because you’re the problem solver doesn’t mean you don’t get to have your own problems.”

Combeferre sniffs. “Yeah. Maybe I should just take Bahorel up on his offer and find myself a boyfriend,” he mutters.

“That seems like a bit of overkill.”

“It might work, though. Everyone in this building’s been treating me a little better now that they think I’m dating you.”

Joly preens. “They don’t call me your better half for nothing.”

“I certainly don’t call you that.”

“Well you should.” Joly is obviously expecting a laugh, and when he doesn’t get one he sighs and turns serious again. “You’re not really considering this?”

“Maybe. Nothing else has worked.”

Combeferre can see Joly’s internal struggle, and they’re close enough that he can guess what it’s about, too. Finally, Joly closes his eyes like he’s asking for patience and says, “this is a terrible idea, but if you’re really set on it, I’m not letting you do it alone. If you need a boyfriend, I’m your guy.”

“Wait, really?”

“I’ve got a lot of reservations about you moving in with a guy you barely know who you’re pretending to date, so this is very much a better option.”

“But what about--”

“We’re not together anymore, it’s not their business. Besides, Bossuet seemed on board with it.”

“Bossuet seemed very drunk, and we weren’t talking about it in the context of you,” Combeferre says. “But if you’re sure--”

“Not at all, but if _you’re_ sure--”

“Okay.” It’s out of his mouth before he even really decides to say it, but there’s no taking it back now. If it doesn’t work, they scrap it, but why not? He cracks a tentative smile. “But if we’re doing this, we’re going whole hog. Let’s get married.”

Joly hesitates. “Okay,” he says.

That is not what Combeferre expected him to say.

He could just backtrack. He could say it was a joke, and they could laugh it off and start planning their fake relationship. But Combeferre is not one to do things by halves, and Joly seems on board with it.

“Okay.”

Joly does still look conflicted, though. “What about after you don’t need me to pretend anymore? Divorces are expensive.”

Combeferre shrugs. “Not really. If you do it by yourself they’re only about three hundred dollars.”

“I’m a resident, I don’t have three hundred dollars.”

“I’d be willing to pay it.”

“What’s wrong with just dating?” If Joly sounded at all distressed, Combeferre would call it off in an instant, but he just sounds curious, so apparently they’re doing this.

“I don’t know. It adds legitimacy?” Combeferre can’t help but laugh at himself, just a little. “I guess I’m just worried that people will figure us out.”

Now that he thinks about it, it’s kind of true. People don’t question married couples, no matter what level of intimacy they show in public. He doesn’t want to force Joly into any public displays of affection, so this is easier.

“There’s no reason they would--” Joly stops, sighs, laughs. “Alright, fine. But I’m getting custody of Rufus when we divorce.”

Combeferre stares him down. “If you try to take my snake from me, I will force you to hire a lawyer.”

* * *

“I’m sorry, you’re doing what?” Bahorel says when they tell him.

“It was your idea.”

“My idea was to get a fake boyfriend, not to get fake married. That’s different by several orders of magnitude. Also, I was super drunk at the time.”

“Technically it’s real married,” Joly says. “There’ll be a certificate and everything.”

“It’s still kind of fake, though,” Courfeyrac says. He laughed for about three straight minutes when he heard, but he’s on board with it now, which is not surprising. Courfeyrac is willing to support even the worst-laid plans as long as he thinks they’re funny.

“People get married for tax benefits all the time. It’s not that different,” Jehan says, leaning against Courfeyrac’s shoulder. Combeferre thought he was asleep.

“I think a read a fanfiction like this once,” says Grantaire.

“We’re not going to fall in love with each other, don’t be-- wait, you read fanfiction?” Joly asks. “What? I don’t have to read it to know the tropes,” he says defensively when Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

Grantaire laughs at him. “Dude, I _wrote_ fanfiction. Lonely, depressed gay teenager? You bet your ass I wrote fanfiction.”

Enjolras is frowning. Whether it’s because of the whole respectability thing (isn’t it always) or because Grantaire wrote fanfiction is unclear. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No, but we’re doing it anyway.”

Enjolras nods, still looking dubious. “Well, I won’t stop you from making your own decisions.” It’s pretty clear what he thinks of those decisions, and Combeferre knows they’ll have a Talk later about being responsible, but at least he’s saving it for when they’re alone.

“If you need a divorce lawyer, as always I’m here to help,” Bahorel says.

“I’m pretty sure it’s going to be amicable, but thanks for the offer,” Combeferre says.

“You never know.”

The conversation shifts, and people drift off to other parts of the room. Courfeyrac takes a dead-on-his-feet Jehan home to sleep, and one by one the others leave as well. Combeferre stays, nursing his coffee. Eventually, it’s just him and Joly sitting across from each other, avoiding eye contact.

“You realize this means you have to move in with me,” Combeferre says. All of a sudden it feels more like a business meeting than just two friends hanging out, but since they’re discussing the details of their upcoming wedding, he supposes that’s accurate.

“Such a hardship,” Joly says. “That is in fact the whole point of this charade, so yes.”

“You don’t mind? I mean I’m uprooting you from your home--”

“Combeferre,” Joly says, exasperated, “I’ve been sleeping at your apartment at least three nights a week for a month; you think I mind? I mean, Bossuet and Musichetta and me are fine, it was a totally friendly breakup, but it’s still a little weird just hanging out in their space. I really don’t mind. I get to live with one of my best friends, and Bossuet and Musichetta and I get some space.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Joly snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered something, but he’s a terrible actor and it’s obvious he’s been planning this segue for a while. “ _Speaking_ of courses, we need to think about catering for the reception--”

“Oh god, stop,” Combeferre says, laughing. “We’re going to the courthouse and getting a marriage certificate, that’s all.”

“Can we at least have a party?”

“What, like an apartment christening party?”

“You’re not even Christian.”

“That’s not what that phrase means.”

Joly waves him off. “No, I mean like a ‘congrats on your new sham marriage’ party.”

“Only our friends know it’s a sham marriage,” Combeferre points out.

“So we’ll only invite them. It’ll be an intimate gathering.”

“So… just us hanging out with our friends.”

“Yes.”

“Like we do every week.”

“Yes. But in a celebratory manner.”

Combeferre cracks first, shaking his head and letting out a pretty embarrassing snort. This is why this is going to work; Joly is fun and easy to get along with and they’re already practically roommates. It’s going to be great. “I can’t believe you managed to say ‘celebratory manner’ with a straight face.”

“I hear that when you get married you lose your sense of humor,” Joly says, grinning. “I’m getting into practice.”

* * *

As much as Combeferre hates to admit that Bossuet is right, apartment hunting _is_ easier now that he’s got Joly by his side. Maybe it’s just that he’s more confident now with someone to fend off intrusive questions and glare down intrigued prospective neighbors, but whatever it is, it works. In what seems like no time at all, they’ve found a nice little two-bedroom place - “for guests, you know, extended family,” Joly tells the landlord, all charm and guile - that’s reasonably priced and close to the Musain, and before he can really process it they’re signing a lease.

“We aren’t married yet,” he whispers to Joly when the landlord’s back is turned.

“So?”

“So we told him we were.”

“We will be soon. There’s no reason to worry.”

And Combeferre knows that, he does, but he can’t help worrying anyway. What if the landlord asks for proof? He wouldn’t, says the rational voice in the back of his head that kind of sounds like Enjolras, that’s not a thing that people do. But he still worries.

Rufus does not like the new apartment, which is unfortunate, but Combeferre hopes he’ll warm up to it, especially when they figure out how to work the heat. The snake is a hand-me-down from an ex-boyfriend who ‘couldn’t handle all this transition business’ so Combeferre doesn’t really have any idea how to take care of him, but Rufus seems content not to interact with Combeferre outside of his bi-weekly feeding, so they coexist pretty well. It is kind of sad to see him so lethargic and mopey, though.

Rufus’ dislike aside, domestic life with Joly is nice. It’s not much different from when Joly was sleeping on Combeferre’s couch, except now he’s there every night and his toothbrush lives by the sink permanently and there are books on the bookshelf that aren’t Combeferre’s, textbooks and medical journals scattered around the apartment. They’re both relatively neat people, but Joly’s one exception to that rule appears to be textbooks. Combeferre finds he doesn’t mind all that much.

They get along well and it’s almost like Joly is just a roommate, but there’s a tension between them that only gets worse as the “wedding” date approaches. By the time it’s finally there, they feel almost like strangers.

“I brought you a tangerine,” Joly says. Combeferre looks up from his place on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the courthouse lobby to see Joly’s outthrust hand, which is indeed holding a tangerine. He looks about as nervous as Combeferre feels.

“A tangerine?”

“You know, citrus.”

Oh, right. It was a throwaway line, months ago, but he did mention it. The fact that Joly remembered is incredibly sweet. “Thank you. I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t?” It’s said with a smile, but there’s an uncertainty to it. The word feels strange. Up until now the idea of getting married has almost been like a thought exercise, and now that it’s a reality Combeferre doesn’t know what to do.

He lets his head thunk against the back of the unreasonably tall bench and groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You kind of have to face it, the wedding is in like fifteen minutes.”

Joly doesn’t sound prepared either, so Combeferre takes comfort in his posturing. He’s wearing the same suit he wore to his sister’s wedding, but Combeferre is wearing a suit he borrowed from a still-disapproving Enjolras so Joly probably wins the “actually prepared for this wedding” award on that one. It’s not Combeferre’s fault; it’s just that the suit he had before he started transitioning doesn’t fit him anymore and he hasn’t bothered to get himself a new one. So he’s stuck wearing this.

It’s not a big deal; they’re just signing some papers, but it feels like a big deal. It’s a ridiculous plan and he doesn’t even remember why he thought it was a good idea, but now their friends all know and it’s too late to back out.

“It’s not too late to back out,” Joly says.

“Yes, it is,” Combeferre groans. “We can’t go back to our friends and tell them we chickened out.”

“I’m pretty sure we can. They all think it’s a bad idea anyway.”

“It is a bad idea.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, but I do wish we’d gotten there a little sooner,” Joly says, with a long-suffering sigh. “Look, we really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Your landlord isn’t going to demand to see our marriage license, there’s no need for this.”

Combeferre knows that, but he’s already committed to this and he’s stubborn, or so he’s been told. His horoscope tells him it’s one of his flaws. Not that he believes in horoscopes, but in this case it’s probably right.

“No. I want to go through with it.”

 “You make your own mistakes, man.”

“If you think this is a mistake, why are you doing it?”

“You think I’m going to let you make mistakes on your own? No way. If this goes wrong at least we’re in it together.”

“A simple ‘I love you’ would have sufficed,” Combeferre tries to joke. It comes out strained. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I do try.” Joly pockets the tangerine, leaving an unattractive bulge in the pocket of his suit pants, and holds out his hand to help Combeferre up. “Come on, let’s go start our life of wedded bliss.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” Combeferre complains, but he follows anyway.

* * *

Despite Combeferre’s fears, things settle back down. The first few days are still strained, but once they realize that married life is, unsurprisingly, pretty much the same as unmarried life, it returns pretty much back to normal. They wear rings now, which is new and often disconcerting, but other than that nothing has changed. Combeferre supposes that come April they’ll have to file taxes together, but like Jehan said, people do that all the time. It’s not nearly as big of a deal as he was afraid it would be.

Sometimes he’ll see Joly absentmindedly fiddle with his wedding band and think, ‘that’s my husband.’ The word doesn’t feel strange anymore; instead, it’s often accompanied by a strange warm feeling, and sometimes he catches himself smiling in a kind of dopey way when he thinks it. That doesn’t feel like the appropriate reaction to seeing your pretend-husband.

But Combeferre is so incredibly grateful to Joly for doing this, so it’s most likely that. And anyway, so far Joly hasn’t noticed, or at least if he has he hasn’t said anything about it.

The same can’t be said for their friends.

“Do you know that you’re looking at him like that?” Courfeyrac asks. Combeferre jerks his gaze away from Joly, who is talking to Jehan on the other side of the room.

“Hmm?”

“The way you’re looking at him. Like you want to jump him.”

Combeferre blinks at him. “I what?”

“I’d congratulate you on your acting but you’re a shit actor,” Courfeyrac continues, “so I can only assume you don’t know you’re doing it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Combeferre admits.

“That’s what I thought.” Courfeyrac pats him on the back and stands up, beckoning to Jehan. “Maybe figure that one out before he notices. Hey, Jehan! Come here and give me a massage!”

“Why?” Jehan whines. He starts picking his way across the room, puppy-dog eyes in full effect.

“Because my back is entirely comprised of knots and you have magic hands.”

Jehan flips Courfeyrac around and does something that makes his head drop forward in relief. “You’re so needy.”

Combeferre tunes them out, turning his attention back to Joly. He hasn’t been looking at Joly any differently than normal; he would have noticed if he were.

Joly turns around and catches his eye. He raises his eyebrows and waves a bit, and Combeferre looks away, flushed. “Before he notices,” indeed.

He absolutely does not look at Joly like he wants to jump him. Or if he does, it’s because of some weird facial configuration, because he doesn’t want to have sex with Joly. Sure, Joly’s attractive, but friends can notice that about each other. Combeferre has never thought about him in a sexual light.

He probably will now, though, since Courfeyrac’s mentioned it.

“Hey, Thousand-Yard-Stare,” Joly says from behind him. Combeferre jumps. “I saw you watching me, what’s up?”

“Nothing, sorry. Your ring kept catching the light and it was distracting.”

Joly splays out his hand to examine the ring. It’s cheap, but Combeferre, at least, can’t tell. “Yeah, it’s still kind of novel. I keep forgetting it’s there and then I see my hand and freak out.”

That’s not true, Combeferre wants to say, you play with it all the time. But that would mean telling Joly that Combeferre’s been watching him, which apparently is not the right thing to do. Instead, he says “I hope the thought of being married to me isn’t that terrifying.”

“You know what I mean.” Joly sits down on the edge of Combeferre’s chair even though there’s a perfectly good empty chair right next to it. “I just never saw myself being married this young, you know?”

“We’re not really married, but yes.”

“Details. Scoot over, you’re taking up the whole chair.”

“There’s another chair right there,” Combeferre says, shifting as he says it to give Joly more space.

“Courfeyrac was just sitting on it. Who knows how many horrible diseases are lingering there,” Joly says.

“I heard that,” Courfeyrac says. He lifts his head and laughs, startling Jehan out of whatever massage-related trance they were in. “Oh my god, you’re like an old married couple.”

“We are an old married couple,” Combeferre says.

“Speak for yourself, grandpa,” Joly says.

It’s easy, and it’s nice, and there’s no reason to mess it up by thinking about what Courfeyrac said.

The problem is, of course, that now that Courfeyrac put the idea into his head, Combeferre can’t stop thinking about Joly in at least a romantic light, if not a sexual one. It’s probably natural, he supposes; you don’t get married to someone without at least considering it, but it’s annoying. He keeps noticing little habits of Joly’s and finding them cute, or letting his eyes linger too long on Joly’s lips when he talks. It’s ridiculous.

It’s not _attraction_ , per se, it’s just… interest. It’s an interesting idea, and it’s something he has to confront now that everyone in his building thinks they’re married.

“Did you see Elena from two floors down’s face when we came in?” Joly says, dropping the grocery bags on the counter. They forgot the reusable ones again; Combeferre keeps meaning to put them back in the car but he hasn’t done it yet.

“No, what was it?”

“She very blatantly looked to see if we were holding hands and then looked really disappointed when we weren’t.” Joly turns away to start putting away food, and Combeferre watches him for a moment. Just a moment, and then he forces himself to look away.

“What? That’s weird. Why would she be disappointed?”

“I dunno,” Joly says, standing on tiptoe to reach the cupboard where they keep canned food. It’s ridiculously domestic and Combeferre loves it more than he should. “We’re a cute gay couple. Maybe she’s one of those girls who’s really into gay guys.”

That doesn’t make it any less weird, but Combeferre shrugs it off. “We could hold hands.”

“What, to please Elena from two floors down?”

“No, to hold hands. I like holding hands.”

“Ooh, Combeferre, have you got a crush on me?” Joly sings.

“What if I did?”

“What?”

“What if did?” Combeferre repeats. He meant it as a kind of joke, but it doesn’t seem to be coming across that way.

Joly turns around slowly. He leans against the counter and spends several seconds looking at Combeferre’s face, thoughtful. “I would hope you’d tell me. It might make things awkward, but I like to think we trust each other enough to share that.”

There’s something strange in his face, a bitter twist to his mouth that Combeferre doesn’t like. He shouldn’t have said anything. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters.

Joly watches him for a few more seconds, then he shrugs and pushes himself off the counter, grabbing a bunch of bananas as he goes. “Besides, who wouldn’t have a crush on me? I’m irresistible.”

Combeferre is beginning to come to that conclusion himself.

* * *

Joly knocks on his door that night as Combeferre is changing for bed. “Hey, can we talk?”

Combeferre freezes. This is it. This is when Joly asks for the divorce and Combeferre’s landlord kicks him out because he isn’t respectable anymore. He shouldn’t have said anything when Joly joked about him having a crush.

Well, there’s no avoiding it. “Just a minute,” he calls back. “I’m putting pants on.”

He expects a flirtatious reply, but none is forthcoming. This is serious.

He pulls pajama pants on and opens the door. To his credit, Joly doesn’t even glance at the scars on Combeferre’s chest-- not that Combeferre thought he would, but it’s nice anyway. “Nice room,” he says.

“It’s the exact same as yours.”

“Yeah, but yours is neater,” Joly says. He stands awkwardly in the doorway. Combeferre would offer him a place to sit, but the only option is the bed and that doesn’t feel like the best setting for this conversation. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Combeferre steels himself. “Okay.”

“I was thinking about what I said earlier today about trusting each other, and now I feel kind of bad because I haven’t been completely honest. So I thought I’d lay my cards on the table.”

“Okay,” Combeferre says, cautious. This doesn’t sound like an ‘I want a divorce’ speech, but he has no idea what else it could be.

“I don’t-- I mean, I wouldn’t call it a crush, but there’s-- I kind of like you, okay? Sorry. I know that’s weird and I want to let you know that I absolutely didn’t feel that way when we decided to do this. I would never take advantage of you like that. But if you want a divorce or something now that you know, that’s fine. I’m really sorry.”

Combeferre is too busy processing to say anything. It’s not fair. He was figuring things out. He was close to an answer, probably, and then Joly had to go and dump this on him. He knows he’s being unfair, but it feels like too much.

Joly must take his silence as disgust or something along those lines, because he backs towards the door, chagrined. “Yeah, so I’ll go. I can sleep at Bossuet and Musichetta’s tonight if--”

“Wait, hold on,” Combeferre says. His mind is racing and he needs time to _think_ , but he’s not going to kick Joly out of his own apartment. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean how?”

“What do you mean by you like me?”

“I mean I like you. Romantically.”

“But how?”

Joly makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t know! How does anyone like someone romantically? I think you’re cute, and I like spending time with you and I want to kiss you kind of all the time, and I’m really glad we’re married but it also kind of sucks because I know you don’t feel that way.”

“I mean I--”

Combeferre doesn’t know what he was going to say, so it’s good that Joly cuts him off. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says, hunching in on himself. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to say anything just because we’re married. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, it’s-- it’s fine,” Combeferre manages. He’s so confused. “You don’t have to sleep at Bossuet and Musichetta’s.”

Joly shifts from foot to foot. “Okay.”

He looks so despondent that Combeferre almost considers telling him about his own struggles, but that would be cruel. Combeferre doesn’t know for sure how he feels, and saddling Joly with that potentially false hope isn’t fair. He puts on the most convincing smile he can and says, “like you said, it’ll be a little awkward for a while, but we’ll get through it. Thank you for trusting me.”

“No problem,” Joly says. They fall silent. “Well, goodnight.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

In the morning, Joly is gone. There’s a note on the fridge saying he’s spending the weekend with his sister, and a plate of pancakes left warming on the stove. Combeferre’s heart hurts.

He eats the pancakes, because they’re good and because it would be rude not to, and then he calls Courfeyrac.

“Hey, C-man! What’s up?”

“I fucked up,” Combeferre says, without preamble.

“Now that is something I’m intimately familiar with. What’s wrong?”

“Joly likes me.”

“I fail to see how that counts as you fucking up.”

Combeferre sighs and puts the phone on speaker so he can wash the dishes. “I didn’t handle it well.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t say anything bad, I just didn’t really say anything at all.”

“Still not what I would consider fucking up.” Courfeyrac pauses. “Wait, was he into you when you got married? Because that’s pretty skeevy--”

“He wasn’t. Or at least he said he wasn’t. He seemed really sorry about it,” Combeferre says.

“Poor guy,” Courfeyrac hums. “So what are you gonna say to him about it?”

“I don’t know. He left for the weekend to hang out with his sister. I think he’s giving me space.”

“Okay great, I’m coming over.”

“Wait, w--” but Courfeyrac has already hung up. Well. Combeferre takes a moment to center himself, then starts on the dishes again.

Courfeyrac arrives so quickly that Combeferre suspects he broke several traffic laws to get there. “How are you doing?” he asks, before he’s even fully in the doorway. He shoves a bag of clementines into Combeferre’s hands. “For you.”

“How does everyone know about the citrus thing?” Combeferre asks.

“Joly told me.”

“When?”

Courfeyrac checks his watch. “About twelve minutes ago. That’s why I was late, I had to swing by safeway.”

So, a lot of traffic laws.

“You really aren’t late. Wait, he talked to you? What did he say?”

“That you might be upset and I should give you these because they’d help you relax. I thought about just going for a grapefruit, but these seemed like a more long-term solution. Also grapefruit is a pretty controversial food and I didn’t know how you felt about it, so I figured I’d play it safe. Also to remind you to feed Rufus and go in for your injection, but I told him you’re too on top of your shit as it is and you didn’t need me to tell you.”

Combeferre blinks back startled tears. He doesn’t deserve Joly, not at all. He shifts his hold on the clementines so they’re not in danger of falling and leads Courfeyrac into the apartment. “Well-- thank you. Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing that you get to know.”

“That’s fair.”

“You never answered my question,” Courfeyrac says as they settle onto the couch. It’s the same couch that Joly slept on for a month in Combeferre’s old apartment, but Combeferre tries not to think about that. “How are you doing?”

Combeferre shrugs. “Fine, I guess. Mostly confused.” He eats a section of clementine. He’s not really hungry, but Courfeyrac keeps looking at him with sad eyes so he takes another piece anyway.

“Confused how?”

“I just don’t know when it happened. I barely had time to even think about the possibility of liking him, and he managed to get to the point where he felt he had to tell me,” Combeferre says. He gives up on the clementine and sets the rest of it down on the coffee table, on top of the peel so it won’t leak juice onto the wood.

“Some people work faster than others,” Courfeyrac says. “So do you like him back?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you feel about him?”

Combeferre huffs a breath in frustration. “I don’t know that either. I just-- it didn’t even occur to me to think of him in that light until you said I was looking at him, and since then I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. But I don’t know if that means I like him.”

Courfeyrac hums. “Well, you’ve dated people before, right?” Combeferre indicates Rufus, asleep in his tank. “Right, I forgot about that guy. What a douche. Anyway, you know what it feels like to like other people, so is this the same?”

“I don’t know,” Combeferre repeats. “Is it possible to like people differently when you’re a different gender? I mean, I was always-- I don’t know. Forget I said that.”

“You’re asking the wrong person, dude,” Courfeyrac says. “One hundred percent cis over here.”

Combeferre lets himself sink back into the couch cushions. Maybe if he stays here long enough the couch will swallow him up. “I just don’t know. It feels like I like him, but it also feels like we’re just really good friends.”

“Those two are not mutually exclusive.”

“I know, I just-- I don’t know.”

Courfeyrac stands up. “Well, don’t say anything to him about it until you do.”

“I know that,” Combeferre says. “I wouldn’t do that. Where are you going?”

“To make you food.”

“I just had pancakes,” Combeferre protests. “And a clementine.”

“Yes, but were those sympathy pancakes?”

“It was a sympathy clementine.”

“Not good enough. Do you want chicken soup or tomato?”

“Neither?”

“Tomato it is.”

Combeferre sighs. At least Courfeyrac’s mothering is cute, even if it’s unnecessary. “At least make some grilled cheese or something. Tomato soup is boring by itself.”

“No can do, bro,” Courfeyrac calls from the kitchen. “My culinary skills are limited to heating and reheating.”

“All you do is put it on the stove and flip it!”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Nope. You want that, you can make it yourself.”

“Some comfort you are.”

“Hey, I brought you clementines!”

* * *

Joly comes back on Monday and Combeferre still hasn’t figured anything out. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Joly says. He won’t look at Combeferre.

“You know it’s okay, right? Nothing has to change.” Shit, that was an awful thing to say. “That was an awful thing to say, I’m sorry. Obviously things have changed. But you don’t need to change your behavior. I’m not going to be weirded out by you touching me or anything.”

Joly looks slightly past Combeferre’s ear. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not touch you right now.”

Okay, that hurts. It makes a certain amount of sense, but it hurts. “Okay. That’s-- that’s fine.”

Joly must hear something in Combeferre’s voice, because he finally looks at him. “No, I mean-- shit, I’m sorry. It’s not that-- I just need a little time. This isn’t going to ruin things, I just need some space.”

“It’s fine.” It’ll be kind of like when everyone stopped touching him when he first transitioned, but he got through that and he’ll get through this. It doesn’t matter that Joly’s casual touches have started to mean more to him than that; he’ll live without them.

“It’s not,” Joly says, but he leaves it there.

“How was your sister?” Combeferre asks.

Joly shrugs. “She’s good. We cried about guys.”

Joly cried about him? Oh god. “Are she and Louis okay?”

“I don’t know. They’re going through a rough patch. She’s worried he’ll ask for a divorce,” Joly says. He smiles a little. “We bonded over that.”

“You’re worried I’ll ask for a divorce.”

“Yes?”

“Joly, I told you I wouldn’t.”

Joly looks at the wall again. “I know, but you’ve had a few days to think about it.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it and my opinion hasn’t changed,” Combeferre says. He hates that Joly won’t look at him.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I get by? I need to shower.” He still won’t look at Combeferre.

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

And just like that, things are back to normal, if ‘normal’ means ‘incredibly stilted and uncomfortable.’ They don’t touch, at all, and Combeferre didn’t realize how much they touched before until it stops. He misses it so much it almost hurts, but Joly set a boundary and he’s not about to break it.

It sucks, but it’s working out well enough, and it at least gives Combeferre time to think.

It’s hard to be objective when Joly is so obviously hurting, but Combeferre tries. He goes through scenarios in his head-- what would it be like to kiss Joly? What would it be like to tell their friends they were dating for real? What would it be like to cuddle with him?

For almost all of the scenarios, the answer he comes up with is ‘not that different’. That’s the problem; he doesn’t know if that means he and Joly were close already or if it means all he wants is friendship. Either way, it doesn’t seem to matter because they’re distant enough that neither one of those options seems feasible.

And then the heater breaks.

It’s off in the whole building, but it kind of feels like it’s directed personally at Joly and Combeferre.

“This is so cliché,” Joly says, standing at the side of Combeferre’s bed.

“You really don’t have to do it.”

Joly shrugs. “We’ve only got the one space heater, and it’s better than freezing.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know I didn’t mean--”

“I know, Joly.” Combeferre wishes they could go back to how things were, before they tiptoed around each other all the time and second guessed their own jokes. “We can figure something out. Walmart is still open this time of night.”

Joly shakes his head, mulish. “There’s a foot of snow out there, we’re not driving to Walmart in the dark.”

“So long as you’re not uncomfortable,” Combeferre says.

“I’m as comfortable as it’s possible for me to be in this situation,” Joly says, which is not reassuring. “Please, don’t make a big deal out of this. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Combeferre says. “Do you care which side of the bed?”

“It’s your bed.”

“I usually sleep on the left.”

“I do actually sleep on the right side,” Joly admits.

We’dve made a great married couple, Combeferre thinks. “Convenient,” he says.

“Yeah.”

They’re silent as they turn on the lights and get settled, as far apart as it’s possible to be while still sharing a queen-size bed, and Combeferre is in that nice state just between asleep and awake when Joly says, voice small and afraid, “you don’t hate me?”

Combeferre rolls to face him, blinking away sleep. “Why would I hate you?”

“I complicated everything for you and I ruined this marriage by falling-- by liking you,” Joly says. Combeferre pretends not to notice the slip. Joly buries his face in the pillow. “I just-- even sharing this bed with you is so hard, but at the same time it’s all I want. That’s pathetic.”

Combeferre blinks. That’s direct. And if he’s honest, it’s not unwelcome, but now isn’t the time to say that. “It’s not pathetic, and I don’t hate you. I feel bad that I can’t make you feel better, but I don’t hate you.”

Joly lifts his head. “Nonononono, don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault.”

“I know it’s not my fault. I’m allowed to feel sympathy without blaming myself.”

“I know, yeah. I’m just--” Combeferre can just barely see Joly’s face in the darkness, mouth turned down in something that’s probably self-loathing. He wants to kiss that look off-- no, damn it, why is right now the time that his subconscious chooses to make his decision for him? “How does it make you feel? Knowing.”

“Flattered?” Combeferre says. “Confused, maybe.”

“Why?”

Combeferre scrambles to think of an excuse. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. The reason, of course, is that it forces him to think about his own feelings and that’s frightening and a little frustrating. But he can’t put that on Joly. “I don’t get why you feel that way, I guess.”

Joly pokes Combeferre in the chest. It’s the first time they’ve touched in weeks. “Is this part of your whole ‘I’m unattractive, no one will ever love me’ thing?”

“No!”

“Because you know that’s not true at all. I’m not the only one who thinks you’re hot.” Joly winces. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s really alright,” Combeferre says. “I guess I just don’t-- there are so many better people you could like, I don’t know why you chose me. I’m not as funny or attractive or--“ he can’t see Joly’s unimpressed face, but he knows it’s there. “I’ll just stop talking.”

“Good idea. Besides, you don’t get to pick who you’re attracted to. Though if I could, I’d probably still pick you. Not under these circumstances, obviously, but you’re an amazing person and if there’s anyone I could be pining after, I’m glad it’s you.”

“That’s really sweet,” Combeferre says. “That actually means a lot.”

“Yeah, well, I try.”

Combeferre reaches out to touch Joly, but Joly flinches a little so Combeferre reroutes the motion to put his hand on the pillow between them. “Hey. I could never hate you, yeah? I know this is really hard for you, but I’m not angry at you and I’m not uncomfortable with it. I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

Joly shifts, and the hand he has on his own pillow moves so it’s almost touching Combeferre’s. Combeferre doesn’t know if it’s intentional. “I am, really. It’s just late and I’m feeling vulnerable. I’ll be alright.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to touch, but I really want to hug you right now,” Combeferre admits.

Joly looks miserable. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay to set boundaries. Come on, you tell me that all the time.”

Joly flops over onto his back, and his hand brushes Combeferre’s in the process. Combeferre’s stomach does a weird swoopy thing. “I do, don’t I? I guess it’s hard to follow your own advice.”

“Don’t worry about it so much,” Combeferre says. “Do what you need to do, take your time.” He’s only being a little selfish in saying that, but it’s true that the longer Joly takes to work through this the more time Combeferre has to work through his own feelings.

“You’re the best,” Joly says. He sounds sleepy; having that weight off his mind is probably helping with that. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You really do,” Combeferre says. Joly doesn’t answer, but Combeferre knows he isn’t asleep yet.

Well. At least they made some progress.

* * *

What felt like progress in the dark and the shared space of Combeferre’s bed seems to evaporate as soon as it’s light. They drive to Walmart and buy a second space heater as soon as the roads are plowed, and the silence between them is awkward again.

Combeferre stares out the window while Joly drives, watching the cars in front of them spraying up slush. He’s not sure why he came along, but they’re pretending everything is normal so it seemed like the right thing to do.

He misses Joly. He misses touching him and he misses laughing with him. He misses being friends. But more than that, he misses the feeling of fragile hope that that friendship could turn into something more. Now every time he thinks about a potential relationship, it’s weighted down with the knowledge that he rejected Joly and it ended up like this.

But last night all he wanted was to pull Joly close and kiss him until that self-hatred melted away and Joly understood how important he was.

That’s not a strictly friendly thought.

Okay then.

He almost tells Joly to forget the space heater and turn the car around, but while they’re driving in tense silence is not the right time to bring this up, so he waits.

Combeferre is not good at waiting. He does manage to last the rest of the day, though, so the space heater is set up in Joly’s room and Joly is presumably getting ready for bed by the time Combeferre finally can’t stand it anymore and knocks.

“Joly, can we talk?”

The door opens and they both stand there, unwilling to make any further moves. It’s a weird mirror of the night Joly confessed to him, right down to Joly’s terrified expression.

“What about?” he says, tried for neutral and failing. Combeferre takes a deep breath.

“Us.”

“You want the divorce,” Joly says, sounding almost relieved. “That’s fine, I knew it would happen eventually--”

“I don’t want a divorce.”

Joly shifts gears admirably quickly. “You-- then what do you want?” His voice wavers a little, but he holds Combeferre’s gaze. Combeferre doesn’t think he could do the same if their positions were reversed.

“I want to put my cards on the table.”

Joly’s eyes go wide. “Combeferre, you don’t have to--”

“I do. I never said anything when you confessed to me, so I want to say it now.”

“Okay.” Joly’s body sort of… caves in on itself, like he’s waiting for a blow. It’s the most heartbreaking thing Combeferre’s ever seen, and the only thing that makes it better is the knowledge that hopefully he won’t look like that in a few minutes.

“I didn’t say anything then because I didn’t know what I felt, and I didn’t want to burden you with my confusion, but I’ve thought about it a lot and I know how I feel now.”

Joly doesn’t say anything, but Combeferre didn’t expect him to. He plunges on. “I didn’t think of you romantically at all when we got married, but afterwards I started just… noticing you, and it kept happening.” He leaves out the part where it had to be pointed out to him, because that’s helpful to no one in this situation. “I wasn’t sure what was going on, and then you told me you liked me and it threw everything out of whack. It took me a while to get back to thinking about it, but I’ve thought about it now.”

“And?”

“And I like you too.”

Joly does not react as well as Combeferre had hoped and expected. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it out of some obligation,” Combeferre says. “If I felt like I had to say it, I would have said it when you first told me. I’m saying it because it’s true and I want you to know it. You don’t have to do anything about it and we can pretend it never happened, I just wanted to tell you. I trust you.”

Joly smiles tentatively. “I did say that, didn’t I? I guess I have to believe you.”

“Well, you don’t have to, but it’d be nice if you did.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to jump into a relationship right away,” Joly says.

“I don’t expect you to do anything.”

“That’s why I love you,” Joly says. He scrunches his eyes shut and makes a face that Combeferre shouldn’t find cute, but he finds it cute anyway. “Shit, sorry, I’m so sorry, you just said you liked me and then I sprung that on you, I’m so sorry.”

“Joly. It’s okay. I kind of already knew.”

Joly looks marginally less terrified. “You did?”

“You slipped up last night. You started to say ‘fallen in’ and I just sort of extrapolated.”

“Well, shit.”

“It’s nice to hear it for real, though.”

“You really like me,” Joly marvels. “Is this a fever dream? Am I dying of hypothermia?”

“We just bought you a space heater,” Combeferre points out.

“Yeah, wait, why did you let me do that? We could have spent that money on something else.”

“Space heaters are not that expensive. And I didn’t want to make you pull over and have this conversation in the car.”

“Okay, that’s-- yeah, that was probably a good idea. Still, now we have an extra space heater we don’t need,” Joly says.

“We can put it in the living room so we don’t freeze during the day.”

Joly hums in absentminded agreement. “You like me.”

“For a while now,” Combeferre says. It’s true, now that he realizes that’s what it was. At some point he should probably confess the truth behind his revelation of feelings, but maybe later, when the situation is less fragile.

“I kind of wondered,” Joly admits. “You were always looking at me, and sometimes I thought-- but then you didn’t say anything, so I just assumed I’d been wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“I gathered that.” They stare at each other, grinning like idiots, until Joly laughs and shakes his head in amazement. “Wow, hearing that was unexpectedly draining. Not in a bad way! Just in like, a catharsis way. I need to sleep.”

Combeferre hesitates. “Do you want to--”

“I’d rather take this slow, if that’s okay with you.”

It’s very much okay with Combeferre, who’s still reeling from this whole thing. It’s been a whirlwind few days. “Of course. There’s no need to rush, we’re already married.”

“Yeah, we got the hard part out of the way.” Joly yawns. “Okay, goodnight. I love you. You don’t have to say it back,” he adds, when Combeferre opens his mouth.

“I wasn’t going to,” Combeferre says. “Not that I don’t, I just was going to say goodnight.”

“What does ‘not that I don’t’ mean?”

“It means that me not necessarily being able to say it out loud doesn’t mean anything,” Combeferre says. Joly beams. “Goodnight.”

And suddenly it’s easy again.

* * *

Neither of them really celebrate Christmas, but New-Landlord-Ian does, and so the lobby is decked out in festive decorations that Enjolras makes outraged noises about when he sees them.

“You can’t fight every battle, Enjolras,” Combeferre tells him, shepherding him away from the _Home Sweet Ho-Ho-Home_ sign next to the elevators.

“But it’s insensitive! There are Muslims in this building, Combeferre, I’ve seen them! How do you think they feel?”

“I don’t know, but you definitely can’t fight _their_ battles.”

“But--”

It’s nice, though. Everything is cozy and the heat is back on, so Combeferre and Joly’s apartment is back to its usual temperature. Rufus is happy and Combeferre is happy and it seems like the whole world is happy-- which is obviously not true, but it feels like it.

They’re taking it slow, and even though part of Combeferre wants to rush headfirst into it, he knows how painful the getting together part of getting together was, so he takes it slow. Every new relationship development is a tiny victory, and he spends most of his time smiling, to himself or to Joly.

When they walk into the Musain holding hands, everyone cheers, which is much nicer than the quickly suppressed gasp they heard from two-floors-down-Elena as they came out of the elevator, but still a surprise. There are streamers and balloons everywhere, and a lopsided CONGRATULATIONS! sign hangs from one of the exposed rafters, incongruous among the assorted holiday decorations. Enjolras protested those too, but at least they’re culturally inclusive.

Combeferre glares at their assembled friends. “Alright, who told everyone?”

Courfeyrac whistles.

“Don’t worry about that, come on,” Feuilly says. “We’re here to celebrate your no-longer-a-sham marriage.”

“It’s the bachelor party you never got to have,” says Grantaire.

Combeferre hides his grin in Joly’s neck. He’s ridiculously happy and even if his friends are nosy and a little sappy, it’s still thoughtful and he’s in too good of a mood to even be mad at Courfeyrac. “I’m pretty sure you can’t have a bachelor party after the wedding.”

“Yeah, but there’s two of you, so you can do it together,” Grantaire insists. “We already bought the party hats so you kind of have to do it.”

“Well, in that case,” Joly says, letting go of Combeferre’s hand, “my good man, let’s break out the party hats.”

“I did tell you I read a fanfiction like this once,” Grantaire says, “So I would like it stated for the record that I totally called it.”

Enjolras collapses into helpless laughter and Grantaire grins at him. Combeferre knows he’s grinning like an idiot too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even startle when Bahorel taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey man, congrats,” Bahorel says. “As much as I love law, I’m glad you didn’t need my help.”

“You hate law.”

“True, but I would have suffered through it for you.”

Combeferre, horrifyingly, finds himself tearing up. “Thanks.”

Bahorel barrels on, not giving Combeferre the time to get even more sentimental than he already is, and Combeferre is grateful for that. “Anyway, I brought you a gift!”

Bahorel proudly presents a small box tied with silver ribbon. It looks like it came from one of those stores that gift wrap for you if you ask, and Combeferre takes it cautiously.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Probably not, but I kept the receipt so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“How thoughtful,” Combeferre says, and pulls the ribbon off. He stares blankly at the box. “This is lube.”

“Very astute.”

“They gift wrap lube?”

“Not usually, but I said it was a wedding present so they made an exception. The employees there are all really friendly.”

“Why did you get me lube?”

“It’s citrus scented.”

Combeferre groans. “Why do all my friends know about this?”

Bahorel grins and pats him on the back. “Hey, I’m here for you whatever you need, buddy. I figured this was better than representing you in court. But also, here’s the receipt because I’ll be honest and say this was mostly a joke gift.”

“I had no idea,” Combeferre deadpans. He unscrews the cap and sniffs at the lube, making a face when it hits him. It smells like orange rinds _at best_. “That is _not_ citrus scented.”

“I don’t think you can return it now that you’ve opened it,” Bahorel says, “so you’re kind of stuck with it.”

“Where am I going to put it?”

Bahorel looks uncomfortable. “Do you mean in general, because I don’t feel qualified to explain--”

“I meant during the party, asshole,” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes. He’s tempted to draw it out just for the fun of it, but he also doesn’t particularly want to sit through Bahorel’s stumbling explanation of proper lube application. For someone who talks about sex so often, Bahorel gets endearingly shy when asked for details.

“Under your party hat?” Bahorel suggests. He’s trying very hard not to let his relief show, but Combeferre can see it, and he’s glad he decided against tormenting Bahorel. Bahorel’s been a great friend throughout this; he doesn’t deserve Combeferre deliberately making him uncomfortable.

“Then my hair will smell like fake citrus.”

“You can tell everyone you bought a new shampoo.”

“I would never use such a foul-smelling shampoo,” Combeferre gasps, mock-offended.

Bahorel gasps louder. “I love that scent! You insult my taste, good man.”

Courfeyrac sidles up between them. “Oh, are we getting into an offense-off? I’d love to join, but if not I’m willing to referee.”

“You’re welcome to take my place,” Combeferre says. “I’m more of a novice.”

Courfeyrac nods. “Yeah, Bahorel’s the big leagues here.” Combeferre has no idea if he’s being serious. “Is that lube?”

“It’s citrus-scented,” Combeferre says, because what else can he say?

“Oh, no, don’t get those, they always smell like orange rinds,” Courfeyrac says, wrinkling his nose for effect.

“So I’ve discovered.”

After many hugs and congratulations, and one very awkward conversation with Musichetta and Bossuet, Combeferre and Joly finally escape the festivities. Combeferre is secretly glad.  He loves his friends, but surprise parties aren’t really his thing.

“Surprise parties aren’t really your thing, are they?” Joly asks.

Maybe not so secretly glad. “Not really.”

“At least they’re all happy for us.” Joly’s eyes light up in mischief. “Hey, you know what we get to do?”

“What?”

“We get to kiss in front of Elena from two floors down.”

“I’m not sure that’s a ‘get to’,” Combeferre says, skeptical. “I don’t want to fuel her fantasies.”

“If she’s going to have fantasies I’m sure she’s having them already. Really I just want to kiss you,” Joly says.

“Bahorel gave me lube,” Combeferre blurts out. Joly stills.

“And… how do you feel about that?”

Combeferre chooses his words carefully. He doesn’t want to offend Joly, and though he knows rationally Joly will be alright with whatever he decides, he’s still afraid of disappointing him. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m really interested in anything below the belt, to be honest.”

“Okay,” Joly says.

“Okay? That’s it?”

Joly spins Combeferre around to face him. “Did you really think I’d be upset? I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re not comfortable with anything genital-related, I’m cool with that. You don’t need to give me an explanation.”

“I know,” Combeferre promises. “I know you’re different from the people I’ve dated before. It’s just hard to unlearn.”

“I hate that you have to, but I’ll do what it takes to help you,” Joly says. He brings his hand to Combeferre’s cheek, but seems to think better of it and tucks a lock of hair behind Combeferre’s ear instead. Combeferre wishes he’d gone through with it. “So what are you going to do with it?”

Combeferre grabs the hand that Joly’s left hovering awkwardly over his shoulder and threads his fingers back through Joly’s. “I was thinking we could use it as a scented candle, but it’s really honestly vile.”

“What’s it smell like?”

“Citrus.”

Joly bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, I love Bahorel.”

“I love _you_ ,” Combeferre says. It’s a nonsensical retort, but it feels right, and the way it makes Joly’s face light up is worth it. “And Bahorel, but mostly you. And in a different way.”

“I should hope so,” Joly says. He raises their joined hands to press a kiss to Combeferre’s knuckles. “Ew, your hands smell like orange rinds.”

“Kiss my mouth instead,” Combeferre suggests.

“That is an unacceptable level of cheesiness,” Joly informs him, but he kisses him anyway.

Combeferre sighs into it, just letting himself be kissed. There’s no expectation, no sense that this is going anywhere else, and so for the first time in a long time he can just enjoy it. Joly moves his hand to cup Combeferre’s cheek like Combeferre thought he was going to earlier and tilts his head just a little, hitching a breath when Combeferre turns the kiss open-mouthed.

“God, I love you,” Joly breathes, pulling away to speak. “I’m so glad I agreed to marry you.”

Combeferre laughs and kisses him again.

Elena from two floors down does squeal a little when Combeferre kisses Joly goodbye before his hospital rotation in front of her the first time, but he tries not to let it bother him. New-Landlord-Ian says something about “the joys of young love” the next time he comes to collect rent, though, which is much more satisfying.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [arokel](arokel.tumblr.com)!


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